Twentyfive Reasons Not to Sleep: The Twilight 25
by nosleep3
Summary: Tales of love, angst, awkwardness, romance, family, lust, and blood. Submissions for The Twilight Twenty-five; drabbles and one-shots. Note: only final 2 chapters are rated M. All others K-T.
1. Ten Watermelons

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt: Soft  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Pairing: Edward/Bella  
Rating: T  
Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters are the property of S. Meyer. Any references to real people are accidental, and references to real places are used fictitiously.

* * *

_Ten Watermelons_

Edward has always done things he'd prefer not to bother with. In the past, this was meant to camouflage his inhuman nature, but for the past four months, the habit has largely become a gesture of love. Not a sacrifice, per se; more of a bargain. He puts up with an inconvenience, a rather tedious chore, or even the very great handicap of moving at a human pace, in exchange for openly enjoying the company and mutual adoration of his first and only love, his human counterpart, his "better half" in all the ways that matter to him. It's July, and all is right with the world, or at least it feels that way, and if he focuses on the girl tugging at his arm, he can almost believe it.

"The thing about watermelons is," Bella says, dragging him to the center display at J & P Produce, "you won't know if they're sweet until you try them."

One of the cons (or pros, depending on how you look at it) of having a relationship with a human is social obligation. No more is Edward relegated to self-imposed pariah status, a position he was actually quite comfortable with, if not a bit resentful of, given his prior lone-wolf status within his family. Now he is in love with a human, and she has human friends, human responsibilities…a life in general. Maybe it's not a normal life—they are much too happy together for this to be normal—but it's as close as Edward has ever felt to a human existence, decades of perfect pretense notwithstanding. Today, this borrowed humanity comes at the cost of braving the mish-mash of fruity scents (thank heaven, there is no raw meat befouling the air!) and forking over seventy-five dollars (pocket change, really) for ten watermelons for the annual Independence Day Picnic at Tillicum Park.

Bella reaches for a particularly large melon, but Edward overtakes her as quickly as publicly possible, raising a curious eyebrow when she asks him to turn it upside down. She frowns, shakes her head minutely, and the offending food is replaced. Edward smiles, lifts a fruit when directed, fills their grocery cart.

"What exactly is your criteria?" he asks, not because he cares about proper watermelon selection, but because he can't remember the last time Bella was so fastidious about anything so mundane, and because her silent thoughts often lead to startling revelations, and because he simply enjoys the sound of her voice. She can't appreciate her own tones, but he hears music there, ever-changing song as her body approaches maturity and the full ripeness of womanhood.

"Most people check for softness by thumping," Bella demonstrates, first slapping the green rind, then rapping it with her knuckles, and finally flicking it with her index finger. "Ridiculous. It tells you nothing. Don't do it."

He doesn't—he'd flick the thirteen-pound fruit clear across the marketplace with his pinkie. Amusing, to be sure, but hardly conducive to blending in.

"Other's say 'look at the stump,'" she continues, pointing out a small circular indentation on one end of the watermelon, her fingertip tracing the edge slowly with a blood-red fingernail. "But the stump's usually gone, obviously."

"Is it the smell?" Edward suggests. He hasn't noticed her deliberately inhaling, but he's been busy thinking of how soft she is, worrying that she'll be disappointed when she finds out the weather will be too sunny for him to attend the daytime portion of the picnic, and listening to the nearby thoughts of the middle-aged store clerk, who, unbeknownst to the rest of the town or to his wife, is bisexual, and is afraid someday he's going to stare at an attractive man like Edward for too long and will be found out and ostracized for his freakish desires. Edward feels a stab of compassion for this man; rather than glaring the human into submission, he simply pretends not to notice the appreciative ogling.

Returning his mind to the conversation at hand, Edward automatically inhales the watermelon—and immediately regrets his carelessness. Flames hotter than tomorrow night's professional-grade pyrotechnics crackle down his throat, urging him to sample the flavor of the ripe, plum-soft human standing beside him.

_Stop it,_ he chides himself. _I love her enough to resist._ And he really does. He just has to remind himself. Daily.

"Nope," Bella answers, only a second and a half elapsing between Edward's question and her answer. "You have to check the rind's color, on the bottom, where it's not green. That's the part that was sitting on the ground during the growth process. If it's white, it was picked too early, and it will be completely flavorless." She shows him the white bottom of the melon in her hand. "Brown, on the other hand, is overripe, and should be thrown out." Edward swallows back his venom, trying to focus on what Bella is telling him, wondering at the strange way she eyes him, how her hand slides across round fruit. He is surprised when he thinks it through and comes to the conclusion that she's being suggestive.

"Yellow skin is perfect," she informs him with a robust smile and an unneeded, ringing slap to the watermelon, and then he knows for certain that she's being a tease. Sexually, she's always been a puzzle to him. A frank conversation about physical relations always results in embarrassed blushes and stumbling words, but let her near a euphemism, and suddenly her body is emanating an entirely different kind of heat, and she becomes the confident woman who knows what she wants and who she wants it from. Damned if Edward knows how he's able to resist her in those moments, scent and soft flesh and sex and blood and love and eternity a whirlwind in his normally organized, well-regimented head.

"But," Bella whispers demurely, reaching for the tenth and final watermelon, fingers curling beautifully, "you won't _really_ know how sweet it is until you cut it open and taste it."

Edward doesn't lift this watermelon for Bella. Instead, he watches her body move, his eyes tracing every line and curve as she bends and stretches. He frowns when he sees the scar on her hand, its color a perfect match for his own skin, memories of the most vivid, dizzying pleasure of his life racing across his every synapse and neuron, sinful-sweet heaven in warm, lush, liquid form.

Without thinking, he licks his lips with venom-coated tongue and murmurs, "I agree."


	2. Crusade

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt: Crusade  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Character: Garret  
Rating: T  
Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters are the property of S. Meyer. Any references to real living people are accidental, and references to real places or real people of historical significance are used fictitiously.

P.S. Honestly, this website has the strangest word counter I've ever seen.

* * *

_Crusade_

I've heard it all.

"For king and country!"

"Remember the Alamo!"

"Heil Hitler!"

"¡Viva la revolución!"

"Democracy!"

"Freedom!"

You know what humans fight for?

Money. Power.

Someone, somewhere, wants to own what he can only read on a map, collect profits from it.

They send men to die for grand ideals, false notions.

It's inevitable.

Their nature.

And I…

I am collector of the dead, vulture, carrion eater.

Soothing the igneous ache in my throat with the blood of the dying, boys screaming for mothers and men for wives they'll never see again.

It's inevitable.

_My_ nature.

I'm not sorry.


	3. Sour Grapes

Prompt: Sour  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Characters: Jasper, Emmett, & Esme  
Rating: T  
Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters are the property of S. Meyer. Any references to real living people are accidental, and references to real places or real people of historical significance are used fictitiously.

* * *

**Sour Grapes**

_Sour grapes: pretended disdain for something one does not or cannot have; disparagement of something that has proven unattainable._

"I _hated_ the taste of pickles," Jasper grimaced, occupying an armchair. His body was arranged in a perfectly normal sitting position, except that it was upside down. He decided the living room looked more interesting that way. "Absolutely disgusting."

"Right?" Emmett laughed, equally amused by his brother's posture and the topic at hand. "I've seen some humans who just couldn't get enough pickles in them. It's foul I tell you." He brought his feet up on the couch, a move that certainly would have earned him a reprimand, had anyone been home to care. Fortunately the two men had the house to themselves for the time being. "Vinegar."

"Gross," Jasper pronounced with an air of finality. Seventy-four dust motes shimmered through the air from the breath it took to utter that one syllable, which was exactly the kind of trivial detail he was tired of his overly observant mind cataloguing for him. "Gross, plain and simple. Some seem to think putting it in salad dressing or barbeque sauce makes the overall flavor more interesting, but I disagree. The vinegar's presence is overpowering." He cast his mind about for another example. "Sour cream?"

Emmett shook his head and gazed out the window, noticing the way the leaves had only just begun to change color with the end of summer fast approaching. "Never tried that one."

Jasper shrugged that he hadn't either, having been born and 'died' before modern refrigeration and certainly never having met anyone who used it as a dietary staple. It had always puzzled him that humans would willingly eat bacteria and call it a condiment, to say nothing of how on earth any of them could tell if it went bad when it was already sour. Mold, perhaps?

"How about…lemon?" his large brother suggested. "I don't quite recall being able to pick it out exclusively."

"A little too tangy for my liking," Jasper responded knowledgably, remembering foul-smelling sailors in Galveston Bay who ingested the little fruit daily to prevent scurvy, "but the citrus quality was invigorating. Personally, I found it much nicer than grapefruit." What was nicest of all was having someone to talk to about this. "I never got to taste cranberry, did you?"

"No, but I did taste raspberry," Emmet recalled, remembering a dry summer in Vermont. "Surprisingly sour. Really could have done with some natural sugars." After a moment's thought, he groaned. "Oh man, _borscht!_"

"Ew," Jasper agreed. "There was this little settlement in Texas, Panna Maria, made up entirely of Polish immigrants who loved the stuff. The general consensus was _savory,_ but as far as I was concerned, the beets were revolting."

"Boys, feet off my furniture!" Esme called from the kitchen doorway, the first back from some clothing store, or a hardware store, hell, her sons couldn't be bothered to keep up with all the shopping excursions of three wealthy females. Tell them where to put the satin-scented bags and which pieces of lumber and drywall were for which project, but that was the extent of their interest. "What _are_ you talking about?"

"Flavors we don't like," Jasper said dully, deflated now that the conversation had ground to a halt. "Blood shouldn't make your lips pucker."

One thing about living in a family of vegetarians, particularly _this_ family: any discussion of human flavors was banned. Rosalie wouldn't have cared, but having never tasted the blood of the men she'd assassinated, or indeed any blood other than animal, she had no frame of reference for comparison and couldn't contribute a valid opinion. Certainly it was frowned upon in Carlisle's presence, not only because he routinely provided medical care to humans and didn't want to think of them in ways that would make their blood harder to resist, but also because he found the whole thing morally objectionable. Carlisle saw humans as people.

Jasper, on the other hand, saw them as animals that happened to have feelings. Some were thought of as Angus cattle (or, at the moment, tainted beef), others as bothersome insects, and still others as pets. One pet in particular had been growing on him, the way she always tried to include him in conversation and ask his opinion if she wanted a different perspective on something she was attempting to understand. However, her continued presence only made this kind of conversation more than a faux pas, particularly when Alice or Edward was within audible or mental earshot. Alice was prone to horrified gasps of shock and subsequent tiny flying fists, while Edward was more the type to hiss and strut, a rooster ready for a cockfight, then issue juvenile commands about maintaining an ever-widening distance from his mortal mate at all times. Knowing how their surrogate mother loved and protected the funny human teenager who wished to call them family, Jasper and Emmett presumed Esme would be equally offended by any mention of humans as a food source.

"We're sorry," Emmett offered, managing to pull off the appearance of contrition, though Jasper knew it was only at the surface. "We'll stop."

Casting her firm parental gaze on her two sons, Esme contemplated their conversation—_honestly, how did they not realize they could be heard from all the way out in the garage?_—before dispatching them out to the car to sort and stow away unneeded camping gear for seven, new power tools to play with, and a rare biography of Sam Houston for Jasper.

Everyone knew of Jasper's life before becoming a Cullen, although it appeared that Edward was mistaken about Jasper's ideas of blood flavor preference. Not having found a singer was not the same as having no palate whatsoever, and a still-evolving conscience came with a certain amount of moral ambiguity, understandably so. And Emmett, for all his insistence that he'd been unable to resist the siren call of the two human females in his post-newborn history, could not fool his mother. Centuries, the Volturi had been sending for human prey from around the globe, and according to Carlisle on only four occasions had any of them ever encountered _igli cantanti._ For Emmett to have found not one but _two_ blood-singers, on the same continent, within thirty years of each other, both times while out alone and coinciding with droughts that had devastated the local wildlife population…no, Esme was not the least bit deluded that when her sons were hungry enough, the right flavor would be enough to tempt them, singer or no. Even Alice had suffered a most regrettable lapse, though no one ever spoke of it—_a four-year-old boy, they'd all had to move to Canada in separate groups, poor Alice was devastated for a full decade, and it was twenty-five years before they could use the surname Platt again._

Yes, mother knew her children well, knew the effort it took for them to reach for the ideal of who they wanted to be, rather than submit to the realities of what they were. As both mother to a large brood and wife to a conscientious, well-meaning doctor, she provided loving guidance, led by example, chided and forgave as needed.

But as a vampire, she'd lived a life before most of said children had come into her family and had three years with only her busy, often-detained mate for company while her fellow coven-member went gallivanting on his own self-indulgent blood binge. She held a private history all her own, kept silent and buried by nothing less than extreme mental countermeasures to protect the dark, shameful secrets she'd never wanted anyone, husband or child, clairvoyant or otherwise, to know.

Alone in the house, in a breath so low none but her could hear, Esme offered, "Crab apple."


	4. Aesthetic Life in Motion

Prompt: Aesthetic  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Characters: Alice and Jasper  
Rating: K  
Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters are the property of S. Meyer. Any references to real people are accidental, and references to real places are used fictitiously.

Title: Aesthetic Life in Motion

* * *

I watch as she dances, a moonbeam over rippling seawater, shifting, fluid. A hundred years I've waited without awareness, unfeeling, blind to the beauty abounding everywhere. The whole world teeming with life and wonder, sprawling for every eye that may see, but I held mine shut. Only _she_ has been the candle flame in a dark room. Only she has called forth the sun, pulled fragrance from flower to air, made music of a simple breath of oxygen. The whole earth is born from this creature, in this moment, every moment. My dancing wind chime. My ivory universe. My Alice.


	5. Reflections on My Son

Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters are the property of S. Meyer. Any references to real people are accidental, and references to real places are used fictitiously.

The Twilight 25  
Prompt: Mirror  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Characters: Carlisle and Edward  
Rating: T

Title: _Reflections on My Son_

My eldest son has long been regarded as the brooder in the family, a quality he is teased for by his siblings, to my continual consternation. Generally he bounces back, both from the ribbing and the despondency, and continues to function within the cohesion of our family unit.

Lately, though, I've noticed a trend. In the last twenty years he's been seeking solitude more often, hunting alone or with only one of us for company. There's nothing unusual about that in principle—after all, too many vampires in one hunt is dangerous for everyone—but when I'm the one to accompany him, he generally comes away still unsatisfied. It's not an unquenched thirst; more of an overall apathy. Sometimes even when he drains a mountain lion. It isn't that I don't try to keep his spirits up, but nothing seems to make him happy. His mother can no longer make him smile. He stopped playing his piano a year ago. He doesn't talk to me as much as he once did, and when he does, he's not really saying anything. _Nothing's wrong, I'm fine, I'll be in my room,_ that sort of thing. His brothers thank me for the top-of-the-line soundproofing of his room so they don't have to listen to his "emo crap" music. My younger daughter used to traipse into his room, trying to make him talk to her, or come play a game, something. Now she stands at the foot of the stairs, looking up after him for five minutes, either searching for his future or calling out her silent pleas and comforts. Probably both. It makes no difference.

Over the winter holidays this year it's nearly impossible to uplift him. I expect relief—he loathes high school, and a nice long break in the middle of junior year _should_ be just what he needs. Not this time. He shuts himself in his private quarters and wallows in his melancholy, very much like the troubled teen he appears to be, except that he's a century old and should have outgrown this stage by now. On Christmas Day I decide I've had enough; I've allowed him to stew in needless misery for too long, but no more. I stride into his room, intent on dragging him downstairs for gift exchange and imploring him to at least fake holiday cheer for his mother's sake. I find him lying in a crumpled heap, staring out the window at the mountains and trees. Tiny glass shards and reflective sand pepper his hands and clothes.

He tells me his mother and I are the only ones who want him to descend the stairs, but really, he will only make us uncomfortable and worried, which will be soaked up by his gifted brother, which in turn will be dispersed to the entire family. He admonishes me to return to the celebration and enjoy myself. Naturally I make excuses to the rest of the family and stay with my boy. I want to know his mind, because that's more important than trinkets and gag gifts and sweaters that don't keep us warm.

It takes massive prodding, pleading, cajoling, and finally scooping him up into my arms like a toddler to get him to speak. He protests, because he's a man, but I suspect he secretly doesn't mind; it's been so long since anyone held him at all, for any reason. Eventually he relents and opens up.

The bits of glass dust, he tells me in a whisper, are symbolic. We heard no shattering sound because of the sound-blocking insulation in the walls and floor of his room, and because of the method by which he executed his task. He used his fingernail as a glasscutter, meticulously sectioning off his gold-framed mirror into small squares and quietly grinding up each piece with his palms until there was nothing left of his reflection.

There is a theory, called Looking-Glass Self, which posits that we develop our self-concept based on how we imagine we appear to others. We use our interpretations of another person's reaction to us as our mirror. It's guesswork, really. Even a pause to choose words can have an infinite number of connotations, none of which the listener can perfectly pinpoint or correctly define in relation to himself. We can't fully comprehend someone's perception of us, even if they claim they're being entirely candid. It's simply impossible for most people.

Not for my son.

For the rest of the family, his talent is a gift, inconvenient for our privacy but incomparably useful for our protection. For him, however, his ability is a curse, and a far greater one than I ever realized.

He knows _exactly_ how others see him. Every nuance, every compliment on his beauty prefaced with the word "alien," every pornographic image that grates against his gentlemanly sensibilities, every stray fancy of horror that would otherwise be dismissed even by the thinker, he hears. He told me about it once, several decades ago. He'd gone out for a walk to clear his head, irritated with some vindictive remark his eldest sister made, when a human turned the corner and saw his face. _Evil._ That was the first thing that came to the woman's mind. A complete stranger judged his soul and pronounced him evil based solely on his facial expression. She wasn't the first, and now I'm certain she wasn't the last.

My first-born son is my best friend; he knows how precious he is to me. However, I'm at a complete loss for what to do for him. Clearly I can't give the typical human-parent advice for a child who's being teased—if the problem could be solved by ignoring it, he would have done that by now. He laughs derisively when I even consider saying it. A parenting magazine I perused fifteen years ago said children need to be reminded that their parents love them at their worst moments, the lowest points in their lives. I think my son can hear my love for him when I'm actively articulating it, but I wonder if he can feel it when I'm teaching him something, playing chess with him, assisting him with a project. Perhaps he cannot. Perhaps he needs more reassurance that the humans are wrong about him, but I don't know how best to counteract the internal observations of thousands of people I can't hear.

Literally, he informs me, _thousands._

In a world full of voices, he feels completely alone. Unlovable and unloved except by the family, most of whom have grown weary of his presence. He despises himself because the fragile beings, whose lives I've so carefully guarded and taught him are also precious, think he's despicable. He's thinking about leaving again, but this time permanently. I beg him not to go, but he is unmoved. I make my heartfelt pleas, offer compromises, ask that he stay with us just until graduation. It's reasonable for him to want to live as a nomad again for a few years; all the others do, on occasion. I tell him to take some time to himself, to reinvigorate and come back refreshed. He shakes his head at me, tells me I don't understand. After ninety years the burden of so much negativity has become too much. Life, time—people—have worn him down.

Despite outward appearances, my boy is not experiencing teen angst, but rather that particular bleak hopelessness found in the elderly and terminal patients who are nearing the end of their lives and long for an end to their suffering. Those are usually the patients who inquire about assisted suicide.

The instant I realize what I'm really dealing with here, he clams up.

I communicate in silence, lest his mother hear anything if she takes it into her head to eavesdrop. There is little hope that my attempts at persuasion will be successful at first. Finally, after hours of listening to my quiet desperation, he agrees not to leave us at this time, but I hold no illusions. I have only delayed the inevitable. There is no return from where he wishes to go.

After nightfall I leave the house alone, telling everyone I prefer a solitary hunt. Instead I seek out a forest clearing my beloved son once showed me, now covered in snow. There I pray, a thing I've not done in ten years. I pray with every fiber of my being for something good to come into my son's life, a person, an event, a spiritual awakening, anything that can shift his perspective, anything that will make life bright and happy and worth living again. Something that will make him see what I saw when I first turned him: his infinite worth. What compassion, generosity, and care he is capable of. How wonderful he is. How much he has to offer. How the world is better for his being in it.

Somehow, there must be a way to repair his looking-glass self.


	6. Curve

Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters are the property of S. Meyer. Any references to real people are accidental, and references to real places are used fictitiously.

The Twilight 25  
(This chapter contains five drabbles, 100 words each.)

Prompt: Heart  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Pairing: Edward and Bella  
Rating: K+  
Title: _Dead Heart_

You've always thought your heart a dead thing, dry, black, silent. Never understood where the "black" part came from, but it feels appropriate. A black heart for the unwanted, the unlovable.

"_If you want to be happy at all," _your family advises, _"you might try actually doing something about it."_

Miracle of miracles, you find yourself in love! But the new part of your life will end tragically. You'll kill each other, medically and metaphorically. Because she's delicious, and she knows your thirst for blood, your inherent evil, your black heart.

"_I decided it didn't matter."_

Your dead heart _leaps!_

* * *

Prompt: Touch  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Pairing: Edward and Bella  
Rating: K+  
Title: _At Last_

I have not the words to adequately describe the pure pleasure of this moment. It is born, not only of this instant, but of many decades of sacrifice and imposed asceticism. Please understand, I don't mean to insult you when I say this, but you cannot conceive of just how long it has been for me. Two months have passed since you were last held in your mother's arms—sixty, maybe seventy-five days. For me, it's been fifty years—that's eighteen _thousand,_ two hundred fifty days—since I last felt another person's warmth. Life is empty but for your touch.

* * *

Prompt: Erosion  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: T  
Title: _Erosion of Inhibition_

Here a little, there a little. A smile where a frown once dwelled. Eyes that travel more appreciatively.

"Don't you want me to kiss you?"

"Only if you want to, Edward."

Lingering kisses, not chaste pecks. Hands that don't pull away. A look followed by a new caress.

"May I touch you here?"

"If you like, Edward."

Arms wound tightly around a tiny waist. Fingers searching beneath fabric. Pleading murmurs.

"May I…?"

"As you wish, Edward."

Shirts on the floor. Skin rolling over skin. Teasing tongue.

"Would it be alright if…?"

"Yes, Edward."

A smile.

_He thinks he seduced me._

* * *

Prompt: Crave  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: T  
Title: _Midnight Craving_

Images flitter through my mind, wispy and ephemeral, then colorful, lush, full-bodied. Cool skin, smooth and glistening under my warm fingers, tracing crevices long denied, black eyes afire, purring throat under my tongue.

"Bella?"

I roam and explore, showering every inch of sculpted abdominal muscle with ardent attention. Weakened moans come to life as my hands slide ever lower, caressing forbidden places, soft strokes of reverence.

"Wake up, love."

Open mouth kisses replace fingertips; _oh god_ I've never tasted anything so sweet.

"Bella, please…"

Licking, sucking, cool honey on my lips.

"Bella, I'm…"

I'm awake now.

"…_Bella…"_

I need more.

* * *

Prompt: Walls  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Pairing: Edward and Bella  
Rating: T  
Title: _Cave-in_

No stone hewn nor chain forged can hold me. They crumble under my grip. No structure can imprison me. I topple buildings and stand proudly amid the rubble. No man, beast, nor immortal can capture me. All die trying.

I am strong.

But this tiny human with coffee-colored irises holds me in submission more effectively than any walls ever could. A light touch of her lips, the gift of her moist skin, her delightful, arousing scent, swirling red tongue, entrapping me with sex in her eyes…

She owns me, completely and entirely. I know no other master.

I am weak.

* * *

All prompts for The Twilight 25 Challenge can be found at community (dot) livejournal (dot) com/thetwilight25


	7. A Fresh Start

The Twilight 25

Prompt: Awkward

Pen name: nosleep3

Characters: Bella and Edward

Rating: T

Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters are the property of S. Meyer. Any references to real people are accidental, and references to real places are used fictitiously.

Title: _A Fresh Start_

A fresh start is supposed to be a good thing. Everybody says so.

But do they say that before or after they get it? I didn't ask for one. I didn't want to leave Phoenix. Everything was fine the way it was. Not great, but good enough. This isn't my fresh start—it's my mother's. She gets an adventure, a new husband, an exciting sex life. I get rain boots.

So here's my unrequested fresh start. It's not much, but it's something.

Sort of.

New truck. New books. New school.

New set of boys to look at from over the top of my textbook. New set of girls to be friends with, or to pretend to be friends with. Whichever. I'm not picky. Just a year and a half, then I'll be gone. I'd leave now if I could. I don't care if I go to some rinky-dink college in the Caribbean or a Marine base adjacent to Death Valley; I'm getting the hell out of here. That will be my real new beginning. None of these people will go with me, so really, what does it matter if we form anything beyond superficial relationships?

Open space is my friend. I've not yet pinpointed why I'm so drastically uncoordinated, but the more room I have to move around, the easier it is to land on nothing when I trip, as opposed to toppling onto innocent bystanders. Everything here appears spacious because the classrooms are housed in separate buildings, lulling me into a false sense of security.

The cafeteria is miniscule.

It shouldn't matter with only three hundred students, but we're talking the entire population cramming through one set of doors. Twenty pushing in, thirty shoving out, per second. Poor architecture, I tell you. Somebody really should knock out a wall and install another exit. Maybe I should call the county fire marshal. Mayor Moneybags has got to be pocketing the city revenue. Architectural authenticity, my ass.

Alas, I must eat, and so I brave the crowd. Inevitably, I'm crushed against a body. A hard, strong body. A decidedly _male_ body, attached to a beautiful face currently marred by infuriated eyes of the most striking gold color.

"Excuse _me_," he scowls, peeling himself away.

_Asshole._

"S-Sorry," I stammer, awkwardly trying to move around him without much success. I step to my left, he steps to my left. I go right, he does too. We look like we're dancing, if two people can dance in the midst of a mob.

Cool, firm hands grip my shoulders to maneuver me…

All the world stops.

The earth's geomagnetic core pulses. Within his _fingertips_.

He keeps walking, not looking back. Striding away as fast as he can go. But it's too late—I've been struck by a thunderbolt.

I'm in love.

With a gorgeous asshat. Or maybe just with the feeling of his touch. There's no denying: that was amazing.

Help.

* * *

I have bio lab after lunch. When Charlie enrolled me in school, you'd think he or the registrar would have at least checked if it was a subject I'd taken before. Two years ago, in fact. And passed with a 93 average. It's probably a good day to dissect something, though, because my stomach is empty. I couldn't make myself eat anything at lunch period, I was so shaken up by that guy.

Pathetic, really.

It takes me a while to get to class—I'm too busy looking around for the angry boy. Who is he? What was his problem anyway? So I accidentally got shoved into him. Surely that was not his first time trying to get through the lunchtime crowd. Something else must be bothering him—that couldn't have been about me.

Maybe he's having a bad day. Maybe he just needs to talk about whatever is eating at him. I could do that; I've been sensitive to my mother's emotional needs for many years, so I have an idea of what to do. But I don't understand _this_. Why do I want to find him? Why do I think he needs me? Why do I _want_ him to need me?

Perhaps this feeling isn't entirely about him. I've wanted things for myself, but never this much. And I never got most of those things anyway.

I manage to slide into the biology classroom three seconds before the tardy bell. Hand over my pass. Another battered book. Only one seat open—

_Oh._

Fate is not entirely unkind. Unfortunately, it's not overly pleasant, either—whoever the boy is, he still looks furious.

Somehow, that doesn't matter. All my life I've done what someone else wanted. Moved away from my father when Mom wanted out of a boring marriage. Flitted from one hobby to the next as Renee wandered through her phases of "personal creative exploration." Moved in and out of houses as she got evicted again and again. Let my dad drag me down to First Beach on my visits, where he proceeded to largely ignore me in favor of his rod and reel. I am allowed to want something for myself, even if it doesn't make sense.

I take my seat, wanting so much to bump into him again, or brush against his hand "accidentally," or slide my fingers across his face, or dive at him in front of God and everyone and shove my tongue down his throat…

_Easy there._ I'm neither a psycho nor a slut. Tempting, though.

His name isn't on his book covers or jotted down at the top of his loose leaf paper. Lecture starts immediately, so there's no opportunity for introductions or conversation. Notes, notes, notes. I know all this crap already. My notebook margins have doodles of eyes, irate and beautiful. I don't dare draw anything more, not wild hair or a slightly crooked nose or those perfect white fingers. Vaguely I notice that I'm sitting marginally closer to him now than I was at the beginning of class. Okay, maybe not marginally. I swear I didn't realize I was gravitating toward his half of the table.

He's looking—I can feel him looking. But I keep drawing. I have to, because it is the only way to keep my hands to myself. He's right _there_. It would be so easy to lean just a little further to the right…

"Something on your mind?" a voice purrs in my ear.

Jump!

_Shriek!_

The entire class, teacher included, turns to stare at me, eyes accusing, judgmental, or dismissive.

The boy is studiously concentrating on his own paper. As if he didn't hear my soft scream, as if he's not the reason I just made a fool of myself in front of twenty-five people on my first day of school.

_Prick._

"S-Sorry," I say, feeling myself blush as I look back down at my notes, embarrassed.

* * *

Home at last. Such a relief. Glad I managed not to make _too_ big a fool of myself for the rest of the school day.

Who am I kidding? P.E. was a nightmare. Why don't they change the phys ed requirement so the school can offer, oh, don't know, electives, maybe? Art class or music appreciation or anything that would allow me to stay in my seat?

I climb out of my stone-aged truck and bustle into the house with armloads of groceries, almost calling out to my mother for help putting things away when I remember that particular automatic response is fruitless. No one is here. See, this isn't really so different from Phoenix. Same responsibilities, less supervision. It's like I'm already living on my own, but without the hassle of having to get a job.

Dinner things are set aside; Charlie said he likes meatloaf, and using the oven will help warm up the house. I wash my hands with lemon-scented dish washing liquid, which has always been my favorite soap smell, when I hear a knock at the door. Fearing Jehovah's Witnesses (I could never sign up for a religion that doesn't allow blood transfusions—I'd die inside a week) I ignore the sound and hunt for a dish towel. Finally I locate one when I hear new knocking coming from the back door.

_Crap._

I quietly pull my cell phone from my pocket.

"Forks Police Department, this is—"

"Dad, someone's knocking at the back door."

"Oh, hey Bells. Who is it?"

"I don't know, I'm not dumb enough to _answer_ it. I'm here alone!"

"It's probably just a neighbor. Mrs. Jeffries said she'd drop by with a pie or something, but I forgot to tell you."

"Dad, I don't—"

"I'm sorry, Bella, I've got to go deal with a vandalism call. I'll be home late. Save me a plate of whatever you make for supper, and don't eat all the pie."

Click.

_Thanks, Charlie._ Twenty-one years as a cop, and I'm the one with more street smarts. Brilliant.

_Knock knock knock!_

No way that's a lady with a pie. Mrs. Jeffries, whoever she is, could leave a pie and a note on the front porch. Fortunately I know exactly where Charlie keeps his off-duty weapon: all the way upstairs, in his nightstand. Whoever is knocking will see me through the windows if I head for the staircase and probably smash their way through the door before I get halfway up the stairs.

Butcher knife. Mom always says answer the door with a butcher knife, and you won't have unwanted company for very long. Where does Charlie keep the big knives?

I hide behind the kitchen wall and try to deepen my voice as I call out, "Who is it?"

"It's Edward," says an amused tenor voice. "From school."

Edward…Edward… "I don't know an Edward." I stick my arm out into the hallway and wave the butcher knife around where I know he'll see it. "Go away."

"We sat together today. Biology."

Oh.

_Oh._

I put the knife down on the counter and peek around the wall between the kitchen and the back door; through the rectangular glass panel, I see shining bronze hair and a paper-white face that's…not hateful. He's smirking at me through the glass pane. "May I come in?"

Evidently knives don't scare him.

"No."

He frowns, then smiles invitingly. "Please?"

"You embarrassed me in front of all those people," I remind him crossly, putting a hand on my hip for good measure as I step fully into the hallway. Now that he's at my door, I can really study his face, his jaw, those strange, lovely eyes. They remind me of Tiger Eye stones.

"That's why I'm here. To apologize." Such a decadent voice. I blink, trying not to get lost in the sight of his lips moving. "Won't you let me in?"

"I'm pretty sure my dad has rules about boys in the house when he's not here." Damn it, why'd I say my dad's not here? Well, it's not like he couldn't have figured that out anyway. The cruiser's gone.

"He'll never know I was here unless you tell him." His fingers slide over the glass, as if he wants to get through and touch me just as much as I desired to touch him earlier, as much as I still wish to touch him now. "Please, Bella?"

He knows my name. This beautiful boy _knows my name_.

I hear myself say, "All right."

Slowly, I move closer to the doorway, staring at him through the window as I continue to memorize his face. My hand freezes on the doorknob, and I do not unlock it yet. Why does it feel like this will be the last time I'll ever see him?

"Edward?"

"Yes?" He taps the glass.

"I…"

_I missed you. All day. Maybe all my life._

His eyes are mesmerizing, almost swirling amber and caramel and India ink. "Open the door, Bella."

"Okay…"

My fingers operate the lock, and the door hinge creaks as it swings open. He smiles and leans forward, inhaling deeply. Without thinking, I reach up and allow my fingertips to drift across his pale, angular face. His eyes suddenly flutter and close, and his entire body stills. All is quiet between us but for the charge racing through our skins—I never want it to end. I've discovered lightning and starlight and fusion and ice in the midst of the Mojave Desert. On my back porch.

"Why…?" he whispers, still not looking at me. "Why did you do that?"

"I…um…" No acceptable lies come to mind. "I've wanted to do that all day."

_I love you. Already._

Edward's eyes flash open, gold-rimmed and shocked. "You…love me?"

Damn, I said that part out loud.

I should take it back. The sensible thing to do would be to take it back, tell him I'm having an off day or something. But I can't make myself retract the most powerful truth of my pitifully short life.

"Yeah, I…" I look down and shuffle my feet awkwardly, reluctantly letting my hand fall away. "I do. Sorry."

Cool skin touches my cheek. Instinctively, I lean into it, enjoying this instance of tenderness and care after a lifetime of being the self-sufficient daughter to selfish parents who live for their own enjoyments.

"Say it again, Bella." The eyes that meet mine now are not angry, nor persuasive, nor smug. In his gaze, I see a sorrow and a need as great as my own, perhaps greater. It's as if he's gone five lifetimes without any love at all.

"I _love_ you, Edward." Such pleasure. Such agony. Is it his, or mine? My heart breaks for him, for whatever terrible consequences will come of this, but I can't bring myself not to say it, roll in it. I touch him again, a bizarre new means of communication, wonderful and sad and consuming. "I love you."

Cool fingers clutch my hair almost desperately as his voice grinds at me. "Why?"

"I don't know." I palm his cheeks with both hands this time, stroking his temples with my thumbs. My body longs to pull his head to my breast and cradle him there, to lay tender kisses on his brow, but I manage to resist that too-bold impulse. "I don't know. I just…do. I'm so sorry."

Sorry I'm complicating his life, that he's hurting. Not sorry that I feel this way. I could never regret this powerful miracle, whatever it is.

Something within him breaks—I can feel it in the abrupt trembling of his chin. A question pulses in the air, thick with electricity and longing. He does not ask me—he seems afraid to ask me. But my soul can hear.

"Yes, Edward." His jaw drops, but I do not let go. Instead I step closer, the edge of my curves grazing his chest as my heart pounds within, rushing to meet the fate that brought me to this place. Wave upon wave of all-encompassing emotion wash over every particle of my being. If I live to be a thousand years old, I will never experience anything as wonderful as this. "Yes."

Edward embraces me with one arm, and the other swings beneath my legs. Cradling me so gently, he shuts the door and silently carries me into the trees. He holds his breath, which I don't understand, nor can I make sense of the determination in his expression.

I close my eyes and press my nose into his throat, feeling the wind rush past me much faster than it should as I snuggle into his sweetness. "Where are we going?" I whisper, searching for Edward's skin with my fingers. Always, always, I must be touching him.

After a moment, I think I hear him say, "To a fresh start."


	8. Heaven in the Sky

Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters are the property of S. Meyer. Any references to real people are accidental, and references to real places are used fictitiously.

The Twilight 25  
Prompt: Sky  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Characters: Bella and Edward  
Rating: T

_

* * *

_

Heaven in the Sky

One of my favorite things to do is lie down in the grass—any grass, be it his yard, mine, the meadow, or somewhere in the park—and talk to Edward as we stare up at the sky. His feet point west, and mine east, and our heads meet in the middle. Sometimes our discussions are frivolous, or romantic, or hilarious. Today is different.

"What do you think happens when vampires die?"

There's that exasperated sigh of his—he hates it when I get anywhere near a subject that involves immortality. "We cease to exist. I've told you that before."

"Because you believe you lost your soul," I clarify, though I know the answer. He's always so sure of this, as if a soul is something he can hear, like a thought. Before I can ask him if he hears the souls of dead mortals, he cuts to the chase.

"You belong in heaven, Bella." Translation: _stop asking, because I'm never going to turn you._

"What _is_ heaven, anyway?" I demand. "Why are you so obsessed with sending me there?" A better question is why he thinks he has the divine authority or even the ability to control my afterlife, but I'm not quite ready to ask that one.

"Heaven is a place of eternal _rest_." By his inflection, I can hear how tired he is of the existence he led for so many decades. (_That was before he met me,_ says a tiny part of me, the part that doesn't have low self esteem and believes him when he declares his undying love.) "It's your reward for a life well-lived, in accordance with the commandments you were given in your lifetime."

Before Edward can make inaccurate assumptions about how pure my life was before him, or tell me that becoming a vampire is a mortal sin (ludicrous, if he thinks he doesn't have a soul anyway), I ask him, "But what if I'm Jewish?"

He startles. Edward is aware that my father was raised Lutheran, but he knows nothing about my mother's upbringing. He's always believed Renee to be a modern-day hippie, devoid of any core belief except gratification, so my sudden rhetorical question throws him off-balance. "Are you?"

"If I am Jewish," I say in a guarded tone, "I would say that _your_ thirst comes from the same place as my thirst, my hunger, and my lust. Those things aren't wrong or bad in and of themselves—they're just basic things that drive us to act. If I tell you Christianity is too obsessed with desires and an afterlife, when the focus should be on the _actions_ we take, in _this_ life, would it change anything?"

A thoughtful frown. "I'm not sure." I know why he's so uncertain: what I've just described is almost exactly what he and Carlisle already believe about how they should conduct their own existence. "I think I'd still wish you to remain human—I seem to recall that dining on blood isn't kosher. And I'd still want you to go to heaven."

I turn my face back up to the sky and skim my palms over the blades of grass. The rye grass is so soft under my body, a naturally luxurious carpet. "What if I'm an atheist and I believe that even as a human, I'll cease to exist upon death except as ashes or fertilizer? Would that change your way of thinking?"

"But I'm _not_ an atheist," Edward insists. I don't feel his breath on my ear—he must be face-up again. "I would hold myself responsible for what happens to your soul, whether you think you have one or not."

"Oh really," I reply, still looking at the clouds with him. _Which one does he want me to watch him from, I wonder?_ "Will I be sentenced to your version of hell because I don't believe exactly the same thing as you?"

"Well, no, of course not," he mumbles. "That would be wrong." I don't know if he's ever acknowledged that, according to basic Christian theology, hell is necessarily a possibility for me, or for anyone who has a soul and lives an ordinary life.

"What if I'm pagan?" I press. "If I practice witchcraft, even in a beneficial way, what happens to me upon my demise? Do I go to hell for being a witch, or do I go to Summerland?"

Edward is silent for a full minute, mulling it over. "I don't know. I've met pagans, but never pagan vampires."

He's thinking along the lines I want. Excellent. "If I'm Hindu and believe in several thousand gods, including some vampire demi-gods, or if I'm a Buddhist and my focus is spiritual enlightenment instead of a deity, would either of those make an impression on you? In both cases, I would expect to be reincarnated, whether I was mortal or otherwise. Do you think that's what would happen for me?"

"I…" Edward reaches back for my hand and squeezes my fingers ever so slightly. "Would you want to be reincarnated?"

"Maybe," I answer quietly, trying to imagine being reborn in a remote corner of the world and attempting to find him again, or even remember him at all. "If it means I can come back as someone who doesn't smell so painfully appetizing to you. I hate that it hurts you to be so close to me."

"Don't say that," Edward whispers rapidly, pressing his nose to my hair. Perhaps it's my imagination, but I think he is just as surprised as I am that he said those words, that he feels that way. "How else would I recognize you?"

Touched but confused by the unexpected sentiment, I ask him, "You would look for me?"

"Of course, my love," he murmurs, kissing the side of my head. "I'd search the entire earth."

"But I thought…" For someone who's been carrying on about a Judeo-Christian heaven all this time, he sure changed his tune quickly. Perhaps the concept is more appealing to him than I thought. I wonder if he'll still want me if I come back as a man. Or a mountain lion. Then I wonder why he'll be looking for me at all. "What happened to that normal human life you've always said you want for me? Did you change your mind about that part?"

"Bella," Edward grumbles, sounding distressed, but he doesn't say more than that. Poor guy can't win with me today, but I can't bring myself to be sorry about that. He obviously _wants_ more than one lifetime with me, but he has this idea that it's wrong somehow, and I need him to understand that it's not, that it's okay.

"I'm not sure I really believe in reincarnation, Edward." He makes his frustrated sigh again, the gravelly one. "I want to be with you always. I don't want to risk being born as someone who might ever reject you. And I don't imagine you'd want that either, not if you intend to seek me out."

After a moment, he whispers, "I don't think I could bear that, no."

Sympathetic but undeterred, I soldier on. "You say you want me to have paradise, but I think you've forgotten that everyone has their own opinion about what that means, and no one's theory has less merit than anyone else's."

"Perhaps," Edward allows, his hand sliding through my tresses. "You seem to have a variety of ideas on the subject."

"Look, I'm not trying to convert you or anything like that," I say softly, my fingers anchoring in his hair as I turn my head to face him. "But whatever you think it is, I can tell you this much: heaven isn't the sky. It's not halos and harps and church every day, not for me. It's not an arbitrary god deciding which cloud I should sit on." I kiss his upside down forehead, his eyes, his nose, his cheek, his chin. "It's right here, Edward. You and me."

"I can't imagine a greater reward than this," Edward breathes, and the earth fades away with heaven's kiss.


	9. These Small Hours

_These Small Hours_

The Twilight 25

Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters are the property of S. Meyer. Any references to real people are accidental, and references to real places are used fictitiously.

* * *

Prompt: Raindrops  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Characters: Edward and Bella  
Rating: K  
Title: _An Ordinary Night_

"_Raindrops keep fallin' on my head…"_

Movie night would be so much less annoying if Edward hadn't already seen every motion picture released before I was born.

"I saw this at a little cinema in upstate New York," Edward informs me. _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_ was released in 1969, coinciding with the Cullens' stay in Watertown, NY. I know this better than I know anything about the plot of this film, or any film we've viewed, because he won't shut up about it.

"Edward, please," I sigh, lovingly stroking his face. "I'm trying to watch."

"Sorry," he smiles.

* * *

Prompt: Retribution  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Characters: Bella and Cullens  
Rating: K  
Title: _A Deserved Fate_

"So I'm a ridiculous little human, am I?"

The congregation of vampire brothers in the backyard comes to an abrupt halt. I'm met with three pairs of owlish eyes, currently confused, amused, and wary, respectively.

"What's that behind your back, love?"

Smiling, I reveal a new water hose.

"Retribution."

Ordinarily I'd be much too slow to bullseye my target, but I have accomplices.

"Hit it, Alice!"

"Lemme go, Carlisle!"

"_Mom!_"

"He deserves it!"

Six vampires and a human, sopping wet, shaking water out of our hair. (Rosalie has wisely elected to remain indoors, laughing.)

Feels like summer.

Feels like family.

* * *

Prompt: Vivid  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Character: Emmett  
Rating: K  
Title: _Apple Tree Universe_

My family believes I'm simple, unsophisticated. That doesn't make me an imbecile. I've learned to keep one treasured secret from Edward. Just one. My most vivid human memory.

My mother, Susan, had long, onyx hair. When I was a boy, she sent me to climb the apple tree and pick fruit. The smell was sweet heaven. Once I spent three peaceful hours in that tree, tossing apples into the waiting bucket below. Momma finally had to climb a ladder to get me down, but once we were up there together, she stayed with me. The world—my mother—was beautiful.

* * *

Prompt: Jealousy  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Characters: Rosalie and Renesmee  
Rating: T  
Title: _Mama_

Renesmee. All I ever wanted.

Tiny, unspoiled. Bright eyes, beautiful smile. Adorable.

_Not mine._

But I can pretend, can't I? For one night, while She is frozen in fire and the man-child who never wanted this miracle is too preoccupied to care, I can imagine she's my baby, the love of my life.

_Not mine._

"Here's your cup, sweetheart." Little slurping sounds. My lips beside her ear. The barest murmur. "Can you say Mama?"

Feeding stops.

Cinnamon eyes bore into mine.

Tiny hand brushes my face.

I see Her, bleeding, broken. Smiling. _Mama._

Resigned, I sigh.

"Can you say Auntie?"

* * *

Prompt: Worship  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Characters: Edward and Renesmee  
Rating: K+  
Title: _Unanticipated Shift_

I've never worshipped anything; the concept seems foreign. Wrong.

Stupid.

Worship is for base humans who can't use reason, who need a benevolent god to forgive them, a wrathful god to avenge them. Somehow these are often the same god.

_What fools these mortals be._

There is no god, benevolent or wrathful. A creator, perhaps, but I think of _It_ as an absent parent. _It_ does not care.

But as I hold this tiny miracle, this child who should not exist, _my daughter,_ at last I understand why some humans feel a god hears them:

This day, I am grateful.

* * *

All prompts are derived from the LJ community "thetwilight25"


	10. Chosen Growth

Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters are the property of S. Meyer. Any references to real people are accidental, and references to real places are used fictitiously.

The Twilight 25  
Prompt: Juvenile  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Characters: Edward, Bella, Jasper, Tanya  
Rating: T

_

* * *

_

Chosen Growth

Guiding a newborn is difficult, but it's not my first time down that road, beginning with my mother, then with two siblings. I know what to expect from someone freshly changed.

My wife, however, is proving to be a conundrum. Contrary to my initial observations, she does not always behave as a decades-old vampire. Over her bloodlust, she appears to have much more control than anyone anticipated, but I have no way to gauge it. If she came across a human, I think she could resist the urge to feed, but if that human had a small laceration? There is no way to know, and that unpredictability makes her more dangerous. For this reason she has agreed to remain secluded from the human population for the full newborn year.

There are other concerns for me as well. I fear the venom and the sensory overload have impacted Bella's mental sense of maturity.

Our relationship has been a series of steps, sometimes in the wrong direction, toward greater mutual understanding and equality. The love is always there, but a true partnership requires something more, and we've taken this journey together. From shyness to affection, from controlling behavior to respect for each other's autonomy. From mortal to eternal.

Proprietary feelings are common among our kind, particularly among those who live a more animalistic existence. But as Bella and I traversed the winding path of our lives and future, I felt we were moving beyond such base notions to get where we are now. Bella is my mate, but she does not _belong_ to me like a piano or a pet, nor I to her. For the most part, Bella continues to carry this attitude post-transformation, and we enjoy a charmed life, all things considered. We hunt together, we read and watch movies together, and we can't seem to stop kissing each other. Our lovemaking is often tender, not pure animal lust. Bella tells me at random moments that she loves me, kisses the top of my head or the underside of my chin, and goes on with her day. She is with me because she has chosen me. That strikes me with a more profound joy and appreciation than a notion of ownership or an idea that I've "won" her like a trophy.

So when my newborn wife abruptly hisses in Tanya's face and spits _"Mine!"_ as she throws her arms around me, I can't help but sigh internally. Another step backwards.

We are territorial by nature. In general this only applies to hunting, but the instinct flares up in other areas of life. This confrontation is a first for Bella, and I try to remember that this lifestyle is all new for her. That Bella feels an involuntary urge to stake her claim in the presence of an apparent female challenger is not unremarkable. That she doesn't back down, however, _is_ a problem. Clearly I have shown no preference for anyone but Bella, and she is aware of that. But even as I try to calm her and reassure her, she will not look away from Tanya, will not relax her stance until the other woman is gone.

Curiously, Tanya simply finds the whole thing mildly amusing as she saunters away into the wilderness. Bella retreats to the bathroom, and it isn't long before I hear the shower raining over stone and see curls of steam escaping from the crevices around the door.

My father tells me I expect too much of Bella if I think she should be able to suppress her instincts entirely before even a year has gone by, and my sisters silently suspect Tanya of deliberately goading my wife through flirtatious subtext that only females can understand. I've not detected as much, but that doesn't mean the underlying desire isn't there, hidden beneath seemingly innocent thoughts. Eleazar sees fit to remind me that there are thirteen of us living in one home, an unnatural state for most vampires, something that the Volturi guard are only able to do specifically because a few among them are gifted with regards to relationships and have no qualms about exercising dominion over each other. Esme suggests that Bella and I leave Denali. I think this is utterly ridiculous until I speak to Jasper.

To my surprise, my brother offers to join us on our journey, along with Alice. He recollects that there was a time, back when I first began to fall in love, when I was quite jealous, despite being over a century old. Furthermore, he confirms that Tanya holds, not malicious intent, but certainly a grudge against me for rejecting her. The situation is irritating to his particular sensitivity, and he doesn't believe things will improve with time.

I'm uncertain how Tanya hid this from me, but I don't feel it is reason enough to justify leaving, and I tell Jasper so. We are all adults, and we should be able to resolve our differences through discussion, not petty baiting and juvenile growling matches.

"Edward," he says immediately, exasperated with me, "if a one-thousand-year-old succubus won't behave herself because her pride's been wounded, don't you think you're setting the bar a little high for Bella? What's more juvenile, that Bella had a typical newborn reaction, or that just because you love each other, you expect a newborn vampire not to react naturally to a perceived threat?"

I'm not so old and all-knowing that I can't learn something new or acknowledge an error in judgment. Not every emotion is necessarily accompanied by a concrete thought I can measure and dissect. In Bella's case I have no right to assume anything at all, a habit I've been prone to in the past. Which is why I'm currently joining my wife in the scalding shower, intent on asking her how she would feel about relocating. She has chosen to remain at my side, no matter where I go—the least I can do is ask Bella what would make her happy.


	11. Freedom

Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters are the property of S. Meyer. Any references to real people are accidental, and references to real places are used fictitiously.

The Twilight 25  
Prompt: Platonic  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Characters: Renesmee and Jacob  
Rating: T

_

* * *

_

Freedom

"Tell me again how it's supposed to work."

Renesmee has been asking for this explanation repeatedly for years now, ever since her body reached the cusp of puberty and her mother began casting worried looks whenever Jacob offered to take Nessie out hunting without other family members acting as chaperones. Now an adult, she has every right to spend time alone with him, and often does. This morning two of them are out walking in a well-forested bit of land along the bank of the Hudson Bay, watching as the pinkening sky slowly begins to appear in the negative spaces of the tree canopy, preferring to talk rather than hunt. Always, for them, it has been this way.

"You already know how imprinting works, Ness."

Jacob, having spent almost every day with Renesmee since her birth, has never been able to provide a satisfactory answer to the real, unspoken question for one reason: he doesn't know. It made sense to him, at the age of sixteen, that he could someday meet and immediately bond with the woman of his dreams, that his supernatural body would recognize his soul mate, his forever love, and everything would be perfect and wonderful, even if it was beyond his control. What he thought would occur and what actually came to pass were so wildly different, it set his head spinning. Understandable, but perpetual motion is a myth; eventually his mind settled down enough to force him to examine the bizarre circumstances and seek the truth.

"Tell me anyway, Jake."

Nobody knows Renesmee as well as they'd like to think they do. Her father, with his mental ability, has always unknowingly added his own presumptions into any thought he reads. Unintentional, to be sure, and not unforgivable, but such a tendency is not conducive to a proper understanding of his only child. Renesmee's mother, not quite as long-separated from her human days as the rest of their clan, tends to assume her daughter is more human than vampire—not an unreasonable assumption, but sometimes it comes with a bit of condescension. Then of course there are various uncles and aunts and grandparents, each with their own personal talents and perspectives, who all believe they have a unique and true understanding of the youngest member of their family.

And then there's Jacob.

"Whatever it is you need me to be, that's what I am for you, as long as I live."

Watching a legend collide with life is not pretty. Romanticized concepts don't translate well into reality. What happened with Quil and Claire…well, that was unfortunate, but in the back of his then-adolescent mind, Jacob figured someday everything would work itself out. "Someday" being a magical point in the future, and "working out" an effortless understanding that would surely spring into the minds of all invested parties at once. The world looks deceivingly clear when you're young and invincible. Claire is now where Renesmee was about four years ago, biologically speaking. No one says it out loud, and the pack members try not to think it when in their mental chorus, but everyone's opinions about this legend, its suppressive nature, and its sustainability, are starting to change.

"Yes, but how do you _feel,_ Jacob?"

Renesmee and Jacob have possessed a unique bond all her life—everyone knows this. Outside expectations aside, these two were, are, and shall be, forever connected. That said, even with the Volturi duress and parental concern thrown in the mix, the structure of the bond itself was left to the two of them to develop. Nessie's babyhood assertions of "_my_ Jacob" were just that: the mental connections made by a toddler with adult communication abilities and a child's emotional sensibilities. He is still her Jacob. He still knows her better than anyone. But he doesn't know everything. And Renesmee, with her hybrid mind, knows him best of all, sometimes better than he knows himself.

"I feel…"

Jacob stops on the deer path, silently fumbling through his half-formed explanations as dawn blooms overhead. When his little Nessie reached adolescence, he went into hiding, afraid of himself, afraid his mind would begin reacting to her physical changes in a way that was surely not healthy or proper for a man of twenty. But when he looked at her in person, he still saw the baby she'd been, the tiny child he'd carried in his arms and on his wolf-back to protect her from danger, the games they'd played over the years. Once he successfully conveyed this to her parents (the memory of their interrogation still made him shudder), they stopped worrying. But as the years went by and the familial regard still didn't change, his anxiety shifted to something else. He told everyone things would be a certain way. They've spent all this time since then getting used to the idea, getting over the fact that they have no choice in the matter, that this is How Things Are. The expectations around him, held by wolf and vampire alike, have become unwanted influence and exigency inside his twenty-four-year-old brain. Now the object of his imprint is asking him a direct question about their relationship, and he is afraid she might not like the truthful answer.

Renesmee, true to form, thumps Jacob on the shoulder. Not because she thumps everyone, but because she knows this will relax him, make things more comfortable. She knows him well enough to see what he cannot: that the peer pressure he's imprisoned by is an exaggeration created by his own mind. This day has been a long time coming, and she's been patient because she understands it will put the proverbial nail in the coffin of everything Jacob and his wolf family thought they knew about their own kind. But after so many years, she just wants everyone to move forward, herself included. Who says the coffin nail can't come from broken shackles?

"Just say it, Jake. It's okay."

The pack, the coven, the little bracelet he made for Nessie's first Christmas—all of them silently tell Jacob they expect him to fulfill the idea of the future he proclaimed at the age of sixteen. Hundreds, maybe thousands of years of tribal legend are on the line. But those are stories. This is real life, _his_ life. And hers.

"I feel like you will always need a brother."

To Jacob's great surprise, Renesmee smiles.

"Always, Jake."

Then she grins even wider, because she knew it _would_ be a surprise, and because she is so happy for him. Today Jacob is finally permitting himself and everyone he loves the one thing he thought he'd lost the first time he transformed and trotted into this bizarre world: freedom.


	12. Imperfect

Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters are the property of S. Meyer. Any references to real people are accidental, and references to real places are used fictitiously.

_Imperfect_

The Twilight 25

* * *

Prompt: Light  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Characters: The Volturi (Aro POV)  
Rating: K  
Title: _Sunless_

We sit in darkness, enshrouded by stones, upon gilded thrones. We plot and rule over all. We collect paintings, music, trinkets, talent.

Our servants bring us prey, artists, amusements. But there is one thing no underling can bring, one thing neither guardian nor slave can gift us with.

We are entirely without light.

The sun has not warmed our faces these many centuries, has not renewed and strengthened our skin nor cleared our eyes. I find that the portraits are not quite as clear as they are in my memory. I can't recall the sight of sunflowers.

We've entombed ourselves.

* * *

Prompt: Wood  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Characters: Quil and Claire  
Rating: T  
Title: _The Precise Moment When Everything Changes_

"You need to talk, Claire-bear?"

Claire is sixteen, roughly the same age Quil was when he imprinted on her. For fourteen years she's known his innocent, unwavering love. Kindergarten graduation, her first date, the day her father was crushed in a logging accident, Quil was there, stronger than oak.

She can only hope he'll support her now.

"I'm scared. I need help," she whimpers, shaking. "Mom's gonna freak."

"Whatever it is, Claire-bear…"

"I'm not Claire-bear anymore." She shuts her eyes. "My boyfriend and I…"

"Claire." Not disappointment, nor anger. An agonized plea. "_No_."

They're both in tears.

"Quil, I'm pregnant."

* * *

Prompt: Plea  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Characters: Edward and Bella  
Rating: T  
Title: _Wanting_

Love isn't perfect.

Every nineteen days she caresses, implores, pleads to make love.

"Why haven't you wanted to lately?"

He only shrugs, makes a non-committal response. She doesn't ask, but he interprets her real question: _Why don't you want me anymore?_

He doesn't have an answer, at least not one she could bear.

_I liked you better as a human._

_You're not warm and soft anymore._

_Fragility was part of the attraction; now it's gone._

He doesn't say any of it; he's hurting her enough merely through physical reticence.

Guiltily, he gives into obligation. Married women shouldn't have to beg.

* * *

Prompt: Voracious  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Character: Carlisle  
Rating: M  
Title: _Insatiable, Part I_

It's all you can do to control yourself at work, talking to a patient, resisting the urge to fly home.

To make love.

To fuck.

Daily.

Hourly.

Heaven lies between alabaster thighs.

You're voracious, insatiable, ecstatic. You'd do anything to please her.

She just needs a variety to choose from.

You try new things together, interesting things. You're sure she likes them.

Of course she does.

Nothing between two devoted lovers is wrong. She simply needs more time to adjust her sense of propriety, release her inhibitions.

Centuries lie ahead to experiment, explore.

Everything will be magnificent.

Really.

You promise.

Prompt: Stagnant  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Character: Esme  
Rating: M  
Title: _Insatiable, Part II_

It isn't that you've stopped loving him; _that's_ something that will never change.

But after eighty years, sex becomes tedious.

You've tried everything he proposed within your mutual comfort zone.

Costumes.

Props.

Biting.

Kama Sutra.

Voyeurism.

Something called a rim job. _After all, it's not like we defecate. Might as well see if it feels good._

The list goes on. He's insatiable.

You're unwilling to suggest anything new—pleasure is not bought with degradation.

You thought it would take hundreds of years to appreciate all the sensations.

You thought this part would never get old.

Turns out you were wrong.


	13. Yael's Tent

___Yael's Tent_

At one year, constant bloodlust waned.

At ten years, carnal lust faded.

At fifty, vampire baseball grated.

At one century, school irritated.

At two, having "parents" got old.

At four, so did marriage.

Five hundred years, and Bella is bored.

Five hundred years, and the world is a radically different place. Large game animals are nearly extinct, along with almost everything else. (Mountain lions were never much fun after the first few dozen hunts, anyway.) Nine billion humans scrounge for food.

Vampires, meanwhile, feast.

Bella approaches the street corner, beckoning the Bangkok breadline prostitutes with rare strawberries, shrimp skewers, things she used to prepare for her long-dead sperm donor. Good to know some human talents still come in handy.

"This way, ladies. I have milk and honey."

Enraptured, grateful, and most of all _starving_, the females follow her into a rundown building just as Sisera fled to Yael's tent, unaware of the nail and hammer lying in wait, a lesson learned from an ancient bible. Thanking her with hot, salivating kisses, the women worship Bella, more than willing to pleasure her first, to strip and grope each other for her, to lavish their soft heat on her cool skin. She smiles and enjoys their game, tasting their sweat and sex like an appetizer. Finally she offers rewards, leading them into a tiny, enclosed space with no windows and only one door. The eager women turn to the glasses perched on a lantern-lit table in the otherwise dark, decrepit room. It's been so many years since anyone has seen a cow or goat in this part of the world; they honestly believe the chalk-whitened water is milk.

"Oh, boys," Bella murmurs, quietly locking the door behind her.

Jasper and Emmett emerge from the shadowed corners, smiling seductively at their sister's catch, inhaling the scent of surprise and visceral fear. "Lovely," Jasper purrs in appreciation, lips wet with venom. Emmett says nothing, his attention riveted on the largest of the three humans. He always did have quite the appetite.

Bella blows both men a kiss before targeting the sweetest-tasting female, the one who kissed her feet. Later she may or may not decide to fuck one or both of her brothers, if she gets bored again. But for now:

"Let's play."

* * *

The story of Yael (or Jael) and Sisera is found in the Book of Judges, chapter 4, of the Old Testament/NEVI'IM.

The Twilight 25  
Prompt: Play  
Pen name: nosleep3  
Characters: Bella, Jasper, Emmett  
Rating: M

Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters are the property of S. Meyer. Any references to real people are accidental, and references to real places are used fictitiously.


End file.
